


Falling Feels Like Flying Till The Bone Crush

by sp8ce



Series: To Speak a Different Language [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Apocalypse, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Episode: s05e03 Free to Be You and Me, Explicit Sexual Content, Fallen Angel Castiel (Supernatural), First Kiss, First Time, Historical References, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Philosophy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:55:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28569603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sp8ce/pseuds/sp8ce
Summary: "His hand touches your shoulder. It matters. He matters. He matters more than anything you have ever known, and he is just one. One creature in billions of years on one planet you happen to have been shaped for. When he pleads with you, you crack. You break and you bend to his will, automatically. Like there was never any other option. You’re shattering like glass because if he matters, then it all does. You love him: you love everything. And you know so much everything. It’s obliterating."
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: To Speak a Different Language [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2099523
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	Falling Feels Like Flying Till The Bone Crush

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a series instead of multi-chapter because I realised these could stand alone and the later chapters (now separate fics) might have content people would want to avoid! this one does not have any archive warnings in it.

The worst part about falling is not the loss of power. It is not the ostracisation. It is not even being hunted and having to kill your own family. It is not the fact there was failure in it, that, in the end, your choice made no real difference besides whatever you see in his eyes, no. The worst part of falling is the fact it changes how you view _everything_ you’ve ever experienced before. But perhaps it was inevitable. No matter what choices you made, Dean was going to change your perception.

You have already seen the end of the world. But you just let it burn. And burn it did. The oceans became poisonous to all their inhabitants, the volcanic activity skyrocketed. Gondwana and Laurasia danced their last given melody, while living creatures suffered and died. But it was part of God’s will. After all, how else was the diictodon going to evolve and dominate the world as their dicynodonts, the Lystrosaurus of the early Triassic and into the primitive mammals of the later epochs? How would the diversity of life on earth be possible to create humans, as they are, therefore vessels, with the complexity to comprehend and give consent to play out God’s prophecies? You’ve seen great extinctions. You’ve seen asteroids switch the roles of power dominating the environment, watch it down the line, dinosaurs to giant terrifying birds to the great array of birds alive today, so many of which humans now eat. 

It had to be like this. It was written.

His hand touches your shoulder. It matters. He matters. He matters more than anything you have ever known, and he is just _one_. One creature in billions of years on one planet you happen to have been shaped for. When he pleads with you, you crack. You break and you bend to his will, automatically. Like there was never any other option. You’re shattering like glass because if he matters, then it all does. You love him: you love everything. And you know so much everything. It’s obliterating.

You have to find your father to make _sense_ of it again. Know that this grand plan must have some grand ending none of the archangels understand. There has to be a way for everything to matter again. But the more you see his eyes, his pain, his smile, the way he laughs at you? The more you realise that no, this is all wrong. It all matters. It all just fucking matters.

He couldn’t believe in you, in God, in what is the only certainty you could ever expect from what this world means, simply because he could not then make sense of the tragedy he’s seen. “ ... _he is either dead—and that's the generous theory—_ ”. But he doesn’t get it. Just like you couldn’t understand why death mattered until you first touched him. He has seen people die, he has seen people suffer, he has dedicated his life to every individual person he can find and save, and he’d give up anything for that. He looks at the past, at God’s absence, through the lense of history. But you’ve seen things he can’t imagine. He can’t even look and comprehend your body at the same time without melting his eyes out, and you’re beginning to think that maybe you’re not able to look at the past and everything you’ve seen without the same thing happening to yourself. 

There is an incessant cacophony in your head, and imagery, constantly, of life, and how it ends, and how it burns. You are not entirely terrified of Raphael striking you down again. If you die and come back, it’s a clue that there is something you don’t understand, something to help you make sense of it. And if you stay dead, then the screeching will just stop.

You’re not entirely sure if Dean cares, though. He seems a lot more focused on the fact you’ve never had sex. You guess that’s intrinsic to life too: reproduction, replication. Otherwise there would be none of this at all. The more you doubt the great design, the more overwhelming it becomes to understand the concept of life itself. But what _is_ real, what is _concrete_ , is the fact it sends noradrenaline in cascades, triggering hormonal response of fear. You think at this point, there isn’t anything you wouldn’t do for Dean. But it’s hard to tell him that his hand on his shoulder alone undoes you. That the reasons why casual sex can be seen as a sin are rushing through you, even if he’s immune to whatever you are feeling. It is so bizarre, to be so much beyond him, yet having him still so much beyond you.

But the way he smiles and laughs makes everything feel like grand design in it’s own manner. He makes it make sense. Life is about the living, and that is precious. It is about his happiness. You want to make him happy. 

When you get back to the impala, Dean’s laughter dies down after a moment. He seems more sober than he is, and he just sits there for a minute. You want to tell him about the dangers of driving under the influence, which you can tell he is just by looking at him, and that perhaps you should drive, but he’s just sitting there anyways.

“You really think you’re gonna die huh? That you won’t make it outta this one?” he says. It’s interesting, how much it seems like that matters to him. It ignites you.

“It seems highly probable at this point, yes,” you admit. You’ve already told him this. You’re not sure how he expects the answer to just change. You let there be room for doubt in your words, though you have none, just to see if it comforts him. You don’t think it does. He’s staring at you intensely now, and you can’t help but return his gaze, glance at his lips. The air feels like static through the dark and vague neon glow. You wonder if he’s going to say something else, if this is where you’re supposed to say something else. He often likes mocking your lack of understanding of different human traits. Sometimes, you think he finds you somewhat endearing. But you’re always still scared of screwing it all up.

“So your cherry’s still unpopped,” he finally says. It eases some of the tension but leaves you confused.

“What?”

“Y’know, we weren’t so successful on our mission. But the night’s still young,” he says. 

“I do not know what you’re referring to. We haven’t failed at summoning Raphael at all--”

“No, _our_ mission. I told you, I’m not letting you die a virgin, it’s not right,” he says. “Like, that’s. That’s not happening, buddy.”

“You think you owe me sex?” you say, but Dean splutters.

“You don’t _owe_ people sex, Cas. It’s just something you do,” he says. You really are _not_ looking forward to trying to sleep with someone again, and you reckon Dean is probably tired, but you nod. 

“Alright,” you say. Dean looks at you like he always does, like you’re the funniest riddle he’s ever seen. Gives you a bit of a smile, and you melt. You wonder how long it’s been like that. How many millions of years have people found cosmic significance in another creature with an expiration date of time that seems like a blink of an eye to you. 

“Well you already scared “chastity” away. Guess that only leaves one option, I guess,” Dean says, and he suddenly seems more flustered than you’re used to seeing him. You think about how you scared “Chastity” away, about absent fathers, about your mission to find your own.

“It wasn’t your fault your father ran off either,” you say, and Dean freezes, eyes wide open.

“We are not talking about him right now,” Dean says. “Man, you really know how to kill a mood.”

“What mood--” you say, but you’re interrupted by Dean’s lips meeting yours. 

It doesn’t feel like much at all until his hands are on your face, and he’s sucking on your lip, and you’re so shocked you barely know how to respond. It stops everything. It stops the tessellating terror and time that beats loudly into your ears like some curse of regret. It stops the doubt of faith and the upcoming apocalypse and the flashes of every mass extinction that have been seared to the back of your eyelids. All that exists is him. And when he pulls away, fear sets like rotting stones turning in your guts. You’re paralysed you did something wrong.

“I’m, I’m a bit drunk, I don’t, I thought you might. Thought I could show you--” Dean rambles, looking at you slightly terrified. It occurs to you, you never made it clear how much you wanted it. You’re not sure how to tell him now, though. Because it feels like electrification. Like if you could rewire the synapses of every living creature on the planet, they’d spark to short circuit. He’s false ions. You’re burning. It’s so much.

You get it now. Why he seemed to think this was the smartest choice of something to do before you die. Because you’re pretty sure this will kill you, anyways. But it’s not stopping you.

You kiss him this time, closing the gap between the two of you fiercely as it to show him how wrong his anxious hesitation is. You want to show him everything with your lips. You want to communicate through this. Like it’s the first words of a new language you’re daring to speak when you’ve automatically been fluent at every other on the planet earth. He pulls at your hair, seemingly somewhat shocked, but kisses you back, and the position you’re in sitting across from him gets uncomfortable, but you don’t stop. You don’t know if there’s anything in the world that could stop you from kissing him.

Except, of course, him pulling away from you.

“We should uh, more room, steering wheel just,” Dean mutters. For someone so self-assured so much of the time, you find it absolutely captivating how he’s fumbling now. He slides over the car seat into the back and waits, and you think it’s kind of silly, but you follow suit. You’re greeted with him going to kiss you again, this time pressing your back against the door and seat. It’s so much you can’t conceptualise anything but his hands on you. He moves them under your shirt, across your nipples, and it’s dazzling. This isn’t supposed to be your body, but your perception whites out to his entire interaction with it. 

You want to _see_ him, you want to feel him, as if maybe it can ground you more. Be a conductor. You push off his jacket, pull at his shirt. 

“God, we’re in so many friggin’ layers, right dude?” he says, and he’s struggling to undo more of your buttons on your shirt too. You’re caught up in him, in the discomfort of the impala behind you somehow turning to pleasure when his hands are on your chest and his lips are on your neck. You run your fingers up and down his bare back, enamoured, almost so enamoured you can’t even begin to marvel. His lips travel down your chest then, and you think he’s being delicate with you, but every sensation of him on you strikes intensity to your core. Like he’s hollowing you out like some squash to put a light in you, a flame. He stops momentarily, at your stomach, twisting awkwardly in the space given in the backseat. “I haven’t... I haven’t exactly done _this_ either, so like, fair warning, or whatever,” he says, and you’re unsure what he means, too entranced by the way his hands fumble at your pants. But once he gets you pants down, pulls at your boxers, he slips his mouth down around the head of your erect cock, and suddenly the pleasure is so intense you can’t even remember what species you are.

“Dean, you don’t--” but his mouth moves on your cock, and you lose track of your thoughts. Guilt flashes again, however, and you make out quickly, “You don’t have to do this.” Dean’s mouth moves off, and you would think you’d be relieved from the onslaught of intensity, but you just want the stunning pleasure back. But he’s smiling at you, glittering expression through the dark of the space between you, and you simply want to sear _that_ into your vision for eternity, even if eternity is this last night or billions of years.

“Want to, want to make you feel good, Cas,” he says sincerely, and when you don’t make any objections, his mouth slides back over your cock, and you lose any semblance of coherence once again, moaning out. Dean seems to take this as encouragement, and swallows more of your cock down. The only thought great enough to keep you from fucking into his face, losing yourself completely, is your fear of hurting him, your knowledge of the human gag reflex, so you go motionless, let him do what he plans to do, but you’re so undone, you’re do undone, _you’re so undone--_

Your hands are laced in his hair, and you’ve always wanted to run your hands through his hair, touch it like it’s priceless, but now they’re more there to stabilise you more than anything, if that’s even possible. Some way of caressing him as he takes you apart. Like a symphony, it grows, chorus, so much going on at once. You’re overwhelmed, somehow embarrassed by the sheer amount you would do anything for him right now, impossibly alight with pleasure at even that thought at all, and it’s just so _good_. And it peaks, climaxes, when they scream so loud there’s no higher, no comprehension no--

“ _Dean_ ,” you try to say in warning, lost in it, but you start coming, ejaculating into his mouth, and he pulls off, coughing a bit, some come landing on your leg as well. Coming down from the bliss, sated, you’re suddenly overwhelmed by a certainty you did something wrong. It’s all so much, to filter in where you are again, who you’re with, what’s happening. Dean’s wiping your leg and his mouth off with his dark shirt he picked up off the ground, and the touch is soothing, calming. 

“Cas, you okay there buddy? Was that... okay?” he asks, timid.

“It was... very good,” you manage to assure, and for some reason that makes Dean laugh. 

“‘Very good,’ well that’s good, I guess,” he says, and he’s still touching you, stroking your legs almost lovingly.

“Could I try?” you ask.

“Try what?”

“To perform oral sex on you.” Dean’s hand stills.

“Cas, you really don’t have to do that...” he says, but you can tell now, you see his tells, the look in his eyes. Maybe this is going to make him easier to read because you can read him now, and he _wants_.

“I want to make you feel good, too, Dean,” you say, and something in Dean’s expression melts. He gives a small, sincere nod, and the emptiness is replaced by new hunger. He undoes his jeans for you, clearly way more eager than his assurances let on. You try to manoeuvre yourself into a position that’s comfortable, and up guiding him back before lowering your head in such a way you can get your mouth comfortably around his cock. You intellectually knew what to expect, but the combination of taste and personal endorphins almost knock you off track. It is extremely surprising, you think, how much it turns you on. 

“Cas, Cas, this is so, so good,” Dean’s muttering out, much more vocal than you, hands in your hair, moving, so so gentle, and you swallow him down more, moaning as you feel his cock sliding in and out of your mouth. It’s vaguely uncomfortable (though maybe you’re pushing yourself too fast) which somehow makes it hotter for you. You’re surprised at your reaction given you just came and you know male humans have a refractory period, but you suppose you don’t have to be getting off to find something so erotic and pleasurable. Granted, it’s probably Dean’s encouragement that gets to you the most. He keeps going on, repeating how good it is, your name, and as you go on, he starts taking your father’s name in vain too. Towards the end, he’s just pleading, _please, so good, Cas.... going to come,_ and when he comes into your mouth you’re prepared enough to try to swallow it, while he gasps out your name one last time. 

“Was that... satisfactory?” you ask, mirroring him again, terrified, but encouraged by his responses. 

“I’d say so, Cas,” he says, laughs. You must look at him sort of perplexed because he grows serious when he says, “As you said, ‘very good.’” You smile at that, go to kiss him again, because you can, because you’re going to die tomorrow, but you don’t even know how to care right now, and you do that for a minute or so, before Dean’s mumbling, “Cas, I’m, I’m very tired.” You move to sit down properly, let him put his head on your lap, and he seems to think this is a great idea, even though there is still not nearly enough room in this car.

“I could fly us back to your motel room, or drive us I suppose,” you offer.

“No, no this is good Cas,” Dean says, even though he does not look very comfortable. You suppose you don’t mind, even though it bothers you significantly if he’s sore in the morning you can’t heal it. But he falls asleep fast, and you think that this should just be what life is, watching over Dean, it being okay for you too. Watching him breathe. You pull your trench coat over his body, and he barely stirs. He stays like that all night, until the sun rises enough that a bright ray of light comes in through the windshield.

It makes Heaven make sense. You think you could spend an eternity reliving this moment. Which you guess marks you significantly human.

He wakes slowly, and when he does, you let yourself stroke your hands through his hair, admiring how he leans into the touch, before he opens his eyes, looks at you, and pulls away so fast it almost seems violent.

“Get out. Now, Cas,” he says, rather tersely, grabbing a flannel from the front seat and putting it on. You do as he says, fumbling at the car door. When you stumble outside, you notice your pants are still undone, and so are all of the buttons on your shirt. Dean groans and throws your trench coat after you, and you wrap it around yourself, disoriented in the morning light and the concrete parking lot ground. It’s a very deserted area, and no one is up yet. Everything feels eerie and quiet, like a storm coming. And for some reason, it’s not Raphael and your soon demise that has your chest beating bright with panic.

Your hands are shaking when you try to button your clothing back up, and it’s shocking to you, how little control you have maintaining your vessel. Dean gets out a moment later, flannel buttons up with his coat on over, fully clothed. He shrugs at you wordlessly.

“Well, get in, we don’t have all day,” he says, and he opens the front door of the impala with more force than necessary. You follow suit, getting in the other side, anxiety tight in your chest. You don’t say a word, and Dean starts to drive towards the abandoned house you’re setting up as a trap for Raphael. Before you get there, however, Dean pulls off to the side on a random road, way out from any other cars or people and gets out of the car, slamming the door angrily. You’re not sure if you’re also supposed to. You’re not sure what you’re supposed to do at all. But does it matter? You’re going to die today, you’re certain. So why does it feel like the end of the world that Dean is so upset?

Dean doesn’t do anything for a long moment, so you decide to get out of the car too, and he walks over to you to face you, just to look adamantly at the car instead.

“That didn’t happen, last night, alright?” The words feel acidic in your own chest. You’re not sure exactly what he means, because something did happen last night. 

“You mean the sex. You mean you regret having sex with me,” you say, the words flat, monotone. Hard to say. Dean winces. Shifts his weight from one foot to another.

“God, Cas, know, don’t go--don’t think that. It just didn’t happen okay? Can’t we just make it so it never happened?” You’re even more confused now. He’s not suggesting you time travel and prevent it? You certainly do not have enough power to risk that right before facing Raphael. He probably doesn’t know the limits of your powers right now, but the idea that you’d strain yourself like that to prevent your intercourse stabs you something awful. But then again, it hurts so badly you can hardly think that he wants it to have never happened in the first place.

“You don’t regret it, but it didn’t happen?” You try to clarify. _Oh_ . “You want me to make it _as if_ it never happened,” you say, feeling extremely numb. Dean nods. You realise now, what he’s asking you. It makes you feel extremely sick. He wants you to erase his memory. You feel hot, nauseous, dizzy all over. It’s become very hard to not flash your distress so obviously on your face. There’s a desperate part of you that just wants to deny him, to leave him with these last memories of you, to tell him you no longer have those particular powers as you’re cut off from Heaven so he’s forced to remember. But he shouldn’t have to. And the thought of him remembering and feeling sick, feeling regret or disgust at being with you? It’s overpowering.

“You want to forget it,” you finally say, and it feels like anaesthetic. You’re biting the inside of your lip to feel something and focus. Dean just shrugs, but he also gives you a guilty smile, and it grows wider when you nod at him in assent. 

\---

It is funny. To watch continents shift and crash and their ecosystems suffer and change and thrive. To feel the moon move get farther away like feeling your father’s absence grow. To watch the stars change their tapestry from the surface of planet earth. It is funny that one night with one human can matter so much. Then again, you guess every second with Dean matters so much. Because he changed you. He changed all the time preceding himself. He changed your philosophy, and the cacophony is screaming in your mind once again. You wish he could keep these memories. You wish you could leave that impression on the world. The way you tried to speak love into every touch. It’s so funny, you think mordantly. How the entire apocalypse seemed insignificant in the grand scheme of Earth’s history to you, but to him it was everything. And how this one night seems entirely significant to you despite the grand scheme of Earth’s history, but to him it was nothing. 

You knock him out after you take his memories, put him in the back seat of the impala. You tell yourself it’s because he never sleeps enough, and they need another couple hours for visiting the hospital anyways. But it’s actually perhaps much more to do with the fact you need to collect yourself. 

You sit in silence, in the front seat, wondering if you did something wrong in the way you ran your fingers through his hair. You wish you left another mark on him.

It isn't your last night on Earth, but, in the end, sometimes you think it should have been.


End file.
